Chapter 3
The air in the castle changes the moment Rhys leads me through the back door.
It gets colder, damp, smelling of ancient stone and something metallic—like old blood and wet iron.
We descend a set of narrow, winding stairs that plunge us deep into the belly of the place, emerging into a dark, oppressive hallway where the only light comes from flickering torches that cast dancing, skeletal shadows against the walls.
We pass several heavy wooden doors, the silence of the corridor broken only by the rhythmic click of Rhys’s boots.
Finally, we stop. A guard stands outside the last door, his face a mask of indifference.
He doesn't even dare to look Rhys in the eye; he just steps aside with a hurried, subservient motion, as if being in Rhys's line of sight is a death sentence.
Rhys unlocks the door with a slow, deliberate turn of the key and pushes it open. I follow him inside, and my heart stops.
There he is. Thomas. My father.
The room is a fucking hole—a concrete cell with moisture seeping through the walls and a single, dim bulb hanging from the ceiling.
He’s chained against the far wall, his arms yanked upward by rusted shackles that bite into his wrists.
He looks pathetic. Filthy, gaunt, his clothes reduced to rags stained with grime and god-knows-what.
He’s blindfolded and gagged, his chest heaving in shallow, terrified spurts.
Rhys steps forward, his movements fluid and predatory. With one swift motion, he rips the blindfold off.
Thomas jolts, a muffled scream dying in his throat as he blinks against the light. He sees Rhys and recoils, his whole body jumping in raw, primal fear. Then, his eyes shift and land on me. He tries to lung forward, the chains snapping taut with a violent clink, jerking him back against the stone.
Rhys reaches out and rips the gag from his mouth.
"Ophelia! Oh, God, Ophelia, please!" he wails, his voice cracked and desperate.
"Get me out of here! Please, baby, I'm sorry!
I know I wasn't a good father, I know I was a fucking drunk, I was out of my mind!
Please, forgive me! I'm still your father, Ophelia!
I'm the only family you've got left in this world! "
I don't move. I just stare at him. I look at the bruises on his skin, the way his hands are shaking, the sheer, pathetic desperation in his eyes. He looks like a broken dog begging for scraps.
I take a slow step closer, my voice cold and steady. "I remember that night, Papa. I remember the man with the butcher's knife. I remember the blood. I remember you killing Rosalind and Cordelia."
The air in the room freezes. Thomas goes rigid, his expression shifting from desperation to a sudden, sharp panic.
"What? No! Ophelia, what the fuck are you talking about?" he screams, his voice rising in a frantic pitch. "You're crazy! You've always been a strange girl, but this is madness! Why would I kill my own daughters? I was the one who called the police! I loved them!"
He turns his head wildly toward Rhys. "Don't believe her! She's had nightmares for years, her head is fucked! Her memories are playing tricks on her, I swear to God!"
Rhys doesn't say a word. He doesn't even look at him.
Instead, he wanders over to a dusty corner of the room where an old gramophone sits.
He winds it up and drops the needle. A haunting, dissonant piece of music begins to fill the cell—something screeching and melancholic that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
Rhys walks back over, crouching down so he's eye-level with the man. That psychotic, thin-lipped smile is plastered on his face.
"So," Rhys purrs, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I hear you let your daughter suffer through nightmares for years. You never once went to her room? Never once held her? You just let those nightmares grow into a fucking phobia of mirrors? You're a real fucking saint, aren't you, Thomas?"
Thomas trembles, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, but no words come out.
"You like games, don't you, you piece of shit?
" Rhys asks, his eyes gleaming with a manic light as he stands straight.
"I think we'll play a little game. We'll call it 'Truth or Die.
' Simple rules: Ophelia asks a question.
You answer truthfully. If you decide to lie to my little doll... well, that's where the fun starts."
Rhys reaches into his belt and pulls out a heavy revolver.
He opens the cylinder with a metallic snap, examining the chambers with a clinical focus.
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a single bullet, and slides it into one of the slots.
He snaps the cylinder shut and gives it a sharp, loud spin. Whirrrrr-click.
"Ophelia is going to ask you about the fucked up things you've done," Rhys explains, pressing the cold muzzle of the gun firmly against Thomas's temple.
"And since I already know every disgusting detail of your life, I'll know exactly when you're lying.
When you lie, I pull the trigger. One bullet.
Six chambers. You've got a one-in-six chance of dying, and a five-in-six chance of surviving. Fair, right?"
CLICK.
Rhys pulls the trigger. The hammer hits the empty chamber with a sharp sound. Thomas screams, his whole body convulsing, his eyes slamming shut.
Rhys whistles softly, pulling the gun away with a delighted grin. "Ooh, your luck is holding up, mate. Pretty good odds. Especially if you just stop lying, eh?"
He turns to me, his expression shifting to one of pure, obsessive devotion. "I'm ready to play when you are, love."
I look at the man chained to the wall. I don't feel pity. I don't feel sadness. I feel a cold, hard void where my love for him used to be.
"Did you kill my sisters?" I ask, my voice flat. "Did you kill Cordelia and Rosalind?"
Thomas doesn't answer. He just shakes. His entire frame is vibrating, his teeth chattering so hard I can hear them. He just stares at me, paralyzed.
Rhys’s smile vanishes. "Thomas... you didn't answer. You broke the rules right out the fucking gate. Disqualified."
Rhys reaches out and shoves the gag back into Thomas's mouth, stifling his sudden, panicked wail. He raises the gun, aiming it squarely at the man's head. Thomas is hyperventilating now, his eyes wide and bloodshot, sobbing through the cloth in his mouth.
CLICK.
Another empty chamber. Thomas collapses into himself, gasping for air, his chest heaving in a full-blown panic attack.
Rhys pulls the gun back, checks the cylinder, and spins it again. He looks at me, his voice suddenly gentle, almost tender. "Ready to ask again, darling?"
I nod. "I'm ready."
Rhys pulls the gag down one more time. "No need to be so nervous, Thomas. Just answer my girl and you'll survive the night."
"Did you kill my sisters?" I repeat.
Thomas starts to shake his head. He opens his mouth to speak, but before a single syllable can escape, Rhys snaps the gun up. "That's a lie!" he barks, shoving the gag back into his mouth with a brutal force.
As Thomas tries to fight the gag, Rhys slams the muzzle against his temple and pulls the trigger.
CLICK.
The sound is like a gunshot to Thomas's psyche. He loses it. A dark, warm stain spreads rapidly across the front of his trousers. He's pissed himself. He's sobbing, sweating, hyperventilating so hard he's nearly choking.
Rhys looks down at the puddle on the floor and laughs—a genuine, psychotic sound. "Why are you crying, you pathetic cunt? You can lie five times and tell one truth, and you might just make it."
Rhys sighs, looking bored. He turns to me. "This is getting a bit dull, isn't it? Do me a favour, love. Reach into my pocket and grab another bullet. Let's make his odds two in six."
I don't do what he asks. Not exactly.
I walk toward him, my eyes locked on Rhys. I slide my hand into his pocket and my fingers wrap around the cold metal of the remaining ammunition. I pull them all out—four bullets—and open my palm to show him.
"Load them all," I whisper. "Make it five. Make his chance of surviving one in six. Make his chance of death five in six."
Thomas lets out a muffled, guttural scream through the gag, his eyes bulging in sheer terror.
Rhys freezes. He looks at the bullets in my hand, then looks up at me.
One of his eyebrows arcs upward, and he lets out a deep, vibrating hum of approval.
He looks at me with a level of love and psychotic obsession that is almost tangible; it's as if seeing this darkness in me has made me the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
"God, I fucking love you," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire.
He takes the bullets from my hand and begins to load the revolver, one by one, with a slow, rhythmic precision. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
I stand there, watching the man who sired me, and it finally clicks.
Rhys isn't here to play mediator. He isn't some fucking impartial judge facilitating a heart-to-heart between a father and daughter. That’s not how Rhys works. He’s a fucking predator, and right now, he’s the only thing standing between me and the psychological wreckage Thomas spent years building.
Rhys has already decided: Thomas doesn't get to speak to me however he wants anymore. The privilege is gone. The second Thomas tries to veer into some manipulative, guilt-tripping territory, Rhys shuts him down. Gag. Gun. Rules. He’s not silencing him because he’s afraid the truth will come out; he’s silencing him because he’s obsessively protective of my head.
He won't let this pathetic piece of shit regain a single inch of power over me.
Rhys reaches out and rips the gag away one more time, his expression cold, devoid of any mercy. "Right then," he purrs, his voice like a razor blade. "Let's try this again. No more bollocks, Thomas. Just the truth, or you're fucking gone."
I step forward, my voice trembling but hard. "Did you kill my sisters? Did you kill Cordelia and Rosalind?"